Chapter Thirty-Two
THE CHOSEN
“Patricia Butler.”
“I am here.”
“Sandra Butler.”
“Present.”
“Wanda Carver.”
“Here.”
“Antonette Christian.”
“Here.”
“Evelyn Dent.”
“Heah.”
“Karla Head.”
“Present.”
“Deidre Lowry.”
“Here.”
“Dana McGavin.”
“Present.”
“Kathy Prentiss.”
“Here.”
“Tracy Sullivan.”
“Here.”
“LaKisha Thomas.”
“Here.”
“Vanessa Willis.”
“Here.”
Grace held a sleek black pen in her beautiful manicured fingers but did not make any marks on the attendance sheet. Only when a ball player was absent did she write anything, so for the past three seasons she had rarely made any mark on her roster sheets. Like Tip’s polished cane, she carried the pretty black pen not for need but for effect. When she finished announcing the names, Grace raised her eyes from the clipboard in her hand and looked at the twelve teenagers who stood in a row before her. She allowed a small smile. “Welcome,” she said simply.
The Twelve smiled in return.
Grace took a deep silent breath and released it discreetly. Adjusted her shoulders to stretch the muscles in her neck, something she used to do when preparing for a race. Pulled up her chin, assuming the posture of confidence she had learned as a pre-teen ballerina. The girls were examining her moves, judging her mien, her clothing, she knew it. But she felt confident under their scrutiny because today she had not dressed in sportswear but had donned, instead, equestrian gear: a charcoal-gray knit pullover, snug tan riding pants, brown leather riding boots—a powerful, clinging, sexy costume she knew the students would praise behind her back. Her curly hair rested full and free upon her shoulders. Tip’s silver whistle lay around her neck. A diamond wedding ring and gold-faced watch with leather band adorned her left hand; a bracelet of twisting bronze, bought on a trip to Ghana, clutched her right wrist, while class rings from UCLA and Emory adorned her right fingers. And she gripped the glossy mahogany cane like a queen’s rod. Everything had come together nicely in the mirror that morning, before she left home. She had felt especially pleased with the shape of her body, its taut toned muscles, which usually she hid beneath loose-fitting clothes. But now, on today of all days, she needed to flaunt its strength and form.
Grace drew in a cleansing breath. The other reason she felt good—the collection of talent standing before her. She had made good choices this time. Eight of the girls she already knew; the other four she had investigated Thursday morning, perusing their transcripts and discussing with junior-varsity coach Julia Brown the personality of three of them. At the moment, Julia sat on the bleachers behind Grace, along with the assistants, watching the proceedings. Julia’s reports on student behavior had been good, and all were average or better in their grades. Except one. Sullivan. A troubling academic record, so Grace would address the matter privately with the girl.
Slowly, Grace began pacing before them, swinging the cane at her side. They watched, silent, waiting. In obedience to her command, they had arranged themselves by order of height along the sideline of the basketball court, and now they faced her table-desk and the bleachers. Even as she prepared to speak, Grace absorbed the appearance of each girl. She did so quickly, discreetly, but nonetheless processed a voluminous amount of data on each player entering her field of vision, as if she were a futuristic computer designed for the purpose. It was a skill she had developed over the seasons, one she used to assess the physical condition of her athletes and to tap into their mix of adolescent emotions so that she could lecture effectively.
First in line, standing far left, Subject Number One. Six feet tall. Sophomore. Kathy Prentiss. Fair skin, slouched shoulders, big feet. Daughter of a Connecticut dentist father and a First Union Bank branch-manager mother, a sheen of red, like a rush of blood, undermining the whiteness of her skin (her mother’s skin); coarse ruddy hair, which she wore in a fat kinky braid (her father’s hair); a bulbous round nose and full red lips that hung open, giving her the appearance of an imbecile; happy and eager and not yet fully comprehending. An undeveloped colt. Now wearing soft gray shorts and a green tank top with a yellow T-shirt underneath, her sneakers dull, cracked, vinyl high-tops. She wouldn’t be ripe for play until her senior year.
Subject Two. Five-feet-eleven. Senior. Toni Christian, daughter of a Marietta Lockheed engineer mother and a Cobb County School Board-accountant father; bony gazelle, flat-footed and unhurried, with languid wrists and ankles, thin fingers, and a nose like fragile china; a red river of color underlying her light brown skin; black hair brushed back close to the head, gathered in a small ponytail; an agreeable, nonchalant spirit with a frail voice that cracked when she tried to yell on court; now wearing a pink pullover blouse and loose-fitting denim shorts that were too stubby for her long legs, old white-and-black Air Jordans on her feet. She was ready—mostly to use her pointy elbows as weapons during rebounding—this season.
Subject Three. Five-ten. Sophomore. Tracy Sullivan.
The computerized recorder in Grace’s mind hesitated for a second before resuming its forward pace.
Daughter of a poor single mother, niece of a homemaker aunt and retired military-officer uncle, beautiful and golden and long-limbed and graceful, well-proportioned, with legs built for long-jumping and arms ready for everything the court demanded; lean and muscular and quick. Pleasingly feminine—thank heaven. Youthfully plump cheeks, cute overbite, clean pink lips, though presently marred by a wound. Pretty brown eyes that deceptively appeared to cross slightly over the bridge of her nose; a thick dark bush of hair that from far away seemed coarse and mean but up close became a soft-looking spongy growth that curled gently at the hairline. When she strode into sixth period, the girl wore the hair unencumbered, a dark cloud bouncing above her shoulders, but later, when she emerged from the locker room for P.E., the cloud was subdued in a wide band of rubber or cloth. The warrior, girded for battle. Now, she wore the brown P.E. shorts, a long white T-shirt, and new white Jazz Nelson high-tops. Grace glanced at the shoes as she did the other aspects of the girl’s appearance: without acknowledgement. (She never acknowledged the shoes, even though she knew the students wanted her to, because the sneakers were sinfully overpriced—she knew it, Darrel knew it—and so it embarrassed her to be reminded that she was financially set for life partly because some young person had spent a hundred dollars for a collection of leather sewn together by a poor exploited child laborer in the Far East.) Sullivan, a tenth-grader, was ready now, most likely because, as her transcript revealed, she had repeated the fifth grade and so really should have been a junior. At any rate, she was almost as ready as the seniors and would more than likely outplay them before the season’s end.
Grace felt a rush of pleasure because of Sullivan, subdued the rush, and took in the next girl in line.
Subject Four. Five-nine. Senior. Evelyn Dent, daughter of a Decatur sanitation worker and a Grady Hospital nurse; big-boned and hairy—and comical, with insufferable lazy enunciation, drooping arms, forward-thrusting pelvis, and ankles too small for the body. But sharp and quick-thinking and calm and friendly, with bright points of light in her round black eyes; skin dark and soft and even, like chocolate taffy, with a flat nasal bridge and full lips, unpretentious and unapologetic, with no attempt to change her speech in the midst of her Standard English-speaking school mates—This me. This how I ack. Sep me for who I am. Dent always wore her thick black hair hot-combed and styled in a curly coiffure with an undergrowth of kinky hair near the scalp, and whenever Grace stood near the girl, she detected the warm sweet oily scent of burnt hair shafts and coconut-scented pomade. And yet, not all of Dent’s bodily
hair was coarse, for there was soft black fuzz at the nape of her neck, a silky black down, barely visible, that spread beneath her ears and claimed space along her brown cheeks and beneath her nose. Now, Dent wore a gray sweatshirt emblazoned with the words MORRIS BROWN—her older sister attended—navy polyester shorts, thin white socks, plain white sneakers. Even last year Grace had known she would make the girl captain.
Next to Dent, Subject Five. Five-feet-eight. Senior. Patricia Butler, daughter of an Augusta, Georgia, A.M.E. minister father and a schoolteacher mother, who lived with her grandmother in southwest Fulton in order to attend Beck; tobacco brown, possessing full thighs and wide pelvis and a tongue as saturated by the burning fluids of blue-collar alleys as by the gentle waters of bourgeois pews; frank and intimidating from afar, warm and bosomy and protective up close—someone you wanted on your side when your team ventured into frightening territory; startled eyes and thick nose; gapped incisors and generous lips; a snazzy dresser off court, not pretty, but a lover of men and effective with them and therefore vain; a young woman who would mature into one of those industrious old ladies who took the lead in church kitchens—the large-breasted, broad-hipped, bossy ladies who were as quick to spew anecdotes about remembered youthful passions as they were to call on the name of the Lord. Now, the still-young Pat wore a cantaloupe-orange sweatsuit, gold herringbone necklace, and new white Air Jordans (she alternated between Jordan and Jazz footwear, without an apparent preference for either); her hair was a series of small waves, stiffened by gel, running laterally across her head from front to back, culminating in a relaxed bob that barely touched the back of her neck—yet another new style for Pat, though not as becoming as others, and this one without the lengthening assistance of a hair weave. As co-captain, Pat’s spitfire ways would complement Dent’s tranquility.
Subject Six. Five-eight. Sophomore. LaKisha Thomas, daughter of a divorced Snellville mother who was a Crawford Long pediatrics nurse; a shy charcoal-colored girl who always wore her hair parted down the middle, with two thick braids that hung at her sides during class time but were piled atop her head and pinned down during practice; thick lips, deep dimples, a large nose, sleepy brown eyes rimmed by dark lines—natural eyeliner; thick-boned but slender, with strong straight legs and a long, erect torso; now wearing the white shirt and brown shorts of the P.E. uniform, black socks and new black Jazz Nelson sneakers. As yet self-conscious in her place among the Twelve, LaKisha seemed embarrassed when called to behave as a player in the midst of them. She would not blossom until next year, when she learned how to use her valuable large hands and feet.
Subject Seven. Five feet, seven inches. Senior. The other Butler, Sandra, no relation to Pat, the only child of a divorced Baltimore couple, an attorney mother and a physician father; a leggy, feminine, fashionable girl—a beloved relief to Grace; a girl whose soft-spoken manner belied a ready and cutting wit. Not outstanding as a shooter from the field, but dependably focused, accurate in executing plays, effective at the foul line and taller than the average set guard in the league; and always the same smooth temperament on court. (Her biggest upsets were caused by chipped nail polish—which was related to the only point of contention with the girl, for Sandra refused to cut the nails as short as Grace recommended. I can’t go lower than that, Miz Grace, I swear. I can’t be looking like a boy.) Sandra now wore a hooded white Spelman sweatshirt (her mother was an alumna), navy shorts, white ankle socks and clean white Nike tennis shoes (no boyish high tops for her, no way, until she was forced to wear them for games). She had survived the summer and was ready for the starting lineup.
Grace’s scanning gaze lowered. She had left the Land of the Tall and was now scrutinizing the short end of the roster.
Subject Eight. Five-foot-four. Junior. Deidre Lowry, daughter of an Atlanta Federal Express supervisor mother and a plumbing-contractor father, appearing mousy behind her tortoiseshell glasses but actually garrulous and aggressive; not outstanding but consistent at the foul line and on lay-ups; now wearing a tan warm-up suit with shorts, thick maroon socks that she wore neatly folded over her ankles, and white Jazz Nelson sneakers. Might fill Sandra’s shoes, the starting set-guard position, next year.
Subject Nine. Five-foot-three-and-a-half. Junior. Dana McGavin, daughter of a Church of Christ minister father and a Georgia Power vice-president mother, a tomboy from New Jersey whose boyish mannerisms Grace tolerated first because the girl was an outstanding natural athlete—stout and sturdy and quick, muscular and bandy-legged and fearless, and indefatigable—and secondly because she was pleasant and cooperative. She had a delightful, fun-loving, loud way of speaking, a dash of Northern urban color without the vulgarity of Pat Butler—words skipped out of Dana’s mouth with rapidity, in the severe pronunciation of vowels (the “ahs” were “aws”), the music of the Hudson River. She seemed intent on making a point—a clarification—about her gender identity, always wearing lipstick and gold jewelry, including a necklace with a cross, and keeping her naturally crimped hair styled carefully, most often pulled back tightly in a ponytail with a soft curly ringlet at each temple—but despite all the effort, still looking, because of her thick neck and squared chin, like a man in drag. She talked often and loudly about her boyfriend, someone named Carl or Karl (she pronounced it “Koo-awl”) who attended Napier High. Dana now wore new white Jazz Nelson sneaks, white shorts, white T-shirt and, over the shirt, an old red tank top (a relic from the North) with a faded number 5 on it. She was almost ready this season, but her raucous nature, if she were thrown in with the starting five, would clash with the tranquil spirit Grace expected from this year’s Dent-led vanguard.
Subject Ten. Five-foot-three. Sophomore. Vanessa Willis, daughter of a Delta pilot father and math-teacher mother, silent, serious, frank, a transfer student from a private school in Macon; five-three and skinny, with short hair slicked back close to the skull and parted on the side, like a boy’s, but the style was becoming. Aggressive on court, a great rebounder, not afraid to drive to the basket, not intimidated by Toni’s height or Pat’s size; now wearing long cut-off denim shorts, a white T-shirt, and nameless high-tops. Had the potential to become a solid bench player by the end of the season.
Subject Eleven. Five-two. Junior. Karla Head from Fayetteville, cute and petite daughter of a UPS tractor-trailer-driver father and a Grady Hospital lab-technologist mother; five-two, milk chocolate, small features, flat chest, with a nice, compact, well-formed behind, gently bowed strong legs, and elegant hands (her nails rivaled Sandra Butler’s); morally modest and ladylike, a feminine tomboy with a jolly disposition and an unstoppable hook shot, delivered with a graceful step; now wearing the brown P.E. shorts, a pink baby-doll blouse, white tennis shoes, and booties with colored pink ankle balls. She would be the foremost element of femininity for next year’s team. Grace prized her for that reason.
Subject Twelve. Five feet. Junior. Wanda Carver, playful and restless and mischievous, daughter of a CDC-researcher father, and sister of four brothers. Slightly built, a tiny burnt-sienna missile darting around the gymnasium, smiling, joking, stealing balls like an urchin and pumping in shots like a miniature shooting machine—an annoying flicker of light and sound on days when a coach craved quiet. Her flagrant boyish ways—she hadn’t a clue about the art of femininity—offended Grace, and on top of that she was marred with unruly hair and the embarrassing blemish around her eye. And yet, there was something pitiable about Wanda, something adorable—a waif with a desperate need for motherly attention, now wearing a wrinkled black T-shirt and cut-off denim shorts and grungy sneakers. Grace saw in Wanda a reminder of her own ancient history, the days before Tip, when she was an orphan in need of one great, deep, maternal hug. For that reason, more than any other, she accepted Wanda Carver, and kept her close.
Grace had reached the end of the line and now paused. Exhaled.
She turned, glanced briefly at Nikki Justin and Gail Neal, whose schedules had allowed them to stay on as trainers. Also sitting on the
bench were Ronnie and Monica, who would act as team helpers. Grace acknowledged all four college students with a nod and brief smile, then looked again at the twelve girls standing before her. Yes, it was a good bunch this year. A tall team, with more players above five-five than she had ever had. A good pair of captains. No contentious ones among them. No boys except for Wanda. No butches, really, although Dana and Vanessa came close. And a promising bench. Grace readied herself for delivery. Although she would, as she spoke, allow her gaze to occasionally fall directly on a student, in actuality she focused on no one as she spoke in the voice of The Coach.
“The twelve of you have just successfully completed what is perhaps the most difficult part of being a player for me, and that is my tryouts. There were almost fifty girls competing for the privilege to stand where you are right now. Does that make you special? Yes. Does it mean I like you? Not necessarily. But it does mean I think you have talent and potential, and for that reason, I chose you.”
She paused, knowing her not necessarily would unnerve some of them. But that was purposeful; she didn’t want players so sure of her approval that they became comfortable. The Voice continued.
“I went to a Catholic high school whose motto was, ‘With Grace, all things are possible,’ meaning, with God’s grace, all things are possible. I want you to remember that, but slightly amended: Take out the God. No, I’m not telling you to forget God in your personal life—I don’t want any of you running out of here telling your folks I’m some kind of blasphemer or an atheist. But I am saying that in here, I am God. I coach this team. So in here, with Grace, with me, all things are possible if you don’t resist me. You must work with me, let my spirit flow through you, because I have a winning spirit. And in order to succeed the way I want you to succeed, you must accept and embrace my spirit. And that simply means doing what I tell you to do. When I give you an order, don’t question it—obey it. If I tell you to play a certain zone and you don’t understand why, just do it. If I tell you to hold off from shooting the ball, and you don’t know why, just do it. If I tell you to go home and do a hundred sit-ups and drink eight glasses of water and shave your heads and slap your mothers—don’t question me. Just do it.”
She paused to let them giggle—they always did, at that point in the lecture.
“Because the truth is, you haven’t just joined a basketball team. You’ve stepped into a way of life. From now on, being a player for me is something you are twenty-four hours a day. Which means that what you eat, what you read, how you perform on an exam, how you dress, even the boyfriend you choose and how you behave with him—should reflect the fact that you are a part of me. You are my girls now. And as such, I expect you to live as I do, by embracing a lifestyle that reflects good health, academic excellence, self-respect, and school pride. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am!”
“Now, if any of you have played basketball in the past for any other school you will erase the memory of that from your minds. Because now you are playing for me and I have my own way of training. You will have gotten a taste of it if you played for Coach Julia, because she knows my thinking and tries to prepare you for my expectations, but now you will get a full dose of how I do things.”
She hesitated. Inhaled, exhaled. What was next? Oh, yes, the femininity lecture.
“As for my immediate expectations. If I wanted to coach boys, I would have asked for Michael Dean’s job at Langston. What is the nickname you have acquired because you play for me? Grace Girls. Or, as the AJC says, the Dainty Dozen. And that’s appropriate. Officially, however, you are the Lady Lions, which is also appropriate because you are ladies, you are female creatures. So conduct yourselves in that manner. That does not mean that I want you to come waltzing in here wearing lace. What it does mean is that I expect you to exhibit behavior expected of ladies, and I want you to do that on court as well as off. So, while we are together as a group, especially when we are at another school, none of you will engage in cursing, loud talking, or horse-playing. And you are certainly never to fight, even if you are provoked. Not only is fighting not lady-like, it also embarrasses me, and anyone who embarrasses me will find herself immediately off this team. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am!”
She paused, took another deep breath, released it, and felt invigorated by the role-playing.
“For games, you will have your hair styled and wear makeup—a light application, not too much, just enough to highlight what’s lovely about your face. Don’t come in here looking like Tammy Faye Baker.”
She paused for the laughs she always got for that remark.
“But do wear a little lipstick, a little eyeliner, mascara, if you like. Smudgeproof, waterproof—don’t want anything getting in your eyes and distracting you. Also, wear earrings. Not large ones, definitely nothing dangling, that’s against league rules because it’s unsafe—you could actually split your lobes. But nice gold studs. And during games, don’t yank on the crotch of your pants—you have nothing hanging down there. Don’t pull on the hem of your shorts when waiting for a free throw. I know they do it in the NBA, but leave that to the men; it doesn’t look right on you. On those occasions when the action is just so good you’ve got to express excitement, make sure the gesture you make is that of a happy woman, not a man: No pumping your fist in the air and barking like a dog. Okay? Watch the seniors, when they play. You’ll see what to do.”
Grace hesitated, thinking quickly. The uniforms lecture was next.
“As for your uniforms, you will receive two—one, burgundy; the other, beige. The beige is for home games, the burgundy, for away games. You must keep them clean and neat at all times. The same applies to your footwear. I will issue brand-new Nikes that I expect you to keep white. Not beige. Not pink because you washed them with a red shirt. White. Okay?”
Nods and smiles and a soft chorus of Yes, ma’am.
“On those Fridays when a pep rally is scheduled, you will wear warm-ups to school. These are good-quality warm-ups, caramel-colored, breathable fabric, that I have paid for out of my own pocket, so you will wear them. You will wear them with monogrammed burgundy T-shirts, white sneakers, and white socks. I will provide those, too. And show courtesy to the cheerleaders—to their captain, Sheila Roundtree, and to their faculty advisor, Mrs. Rice-Paulk—because they work hard for us. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Grace took a final look at the Twelve. “All right,” she said, “you may have a seat. On the first row,” she added.
The players immediately obeyed. As they arrived at the bleachers, only one, Wanda Carver, spoke, touching her forehead in playful greeting and saying to Julia, her former coach, “What’s up, Miss J?”
“Carver,” Grace reprimanded, and the little junior quickly snapped back into solemnity.
Grace looked at the woman Wanda had addressed. “Julia?” she summoned. “Please,” she invited.
The attractive woman in her early thirties immediately rose and walked over, standing beside Grace. Both women faced the girls on the bleachers.
“The woman standing to my left,” Grace said, “really should be standing at my right because ever since I came to Beck four years ago, she has been my right arm. All of you, except Sullivan, already know her as Coach Julia from junior varsity, but what you may not know is that, as senior associate athletic director, Julia Brown wears more hats than anyone else in this department, including me. Everyone on staff reports to her, which gives her an incredible administrative and managerial responsibility. On top of that, she teaches three classes in the complex and, as you know, is head coach of all JV sports. And what is most important to you, she is the one who will act as head coach in the event I am unable to perform my duty as your coach. Now, granted, that has never happened, because in four years I have never missed a day, I have never been sick. But should the occasion arise when she needs to lead you, believe me when I say she is more than qualified to do it. Earlier, I said that she gave yo
u a taste of my training, but that’s not because she doesn’t understand it. She only gives you a taste in JV because she and I have agreed that that’s all you can handle at that stage of your development as a player. But she absolutely understands how I think as a coach, so if you ever find her standing before you, as I am, you are to give your fullest respect and cooperation, and you are to show her that I’ve taught you well. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Grace looked expectantly at the woman beside her.
Julia spoke pleasantly. “Thank you, Grace. To you girls, I’d like to say congratulations for being chosen to play for this marvelous woman, and I look forward to working with you, should the occasion arise.”
“Thank you, Coach J,” said Pat Butler, a senior who was not afraid to speak out of turn.
“You’re welcome, Miss Butler.”
Emboldened by Pat’s courage—and by Miz Grace’s lack of disapproval—a few others chimed in with their own thank-you’s to the woman who had been their first coach. Julia Brown accepted their words with a smile, then nodded a farewell to Grace before walking off the floor and leaving the gymnasium.
As Julia departed, Grace looked at the young woman beside whom Julia had sat. “Tab?” she called, and a slim and athletic woman in her twenties, with brown skin and Asian facial features, promptly stood beside the coach. She held a clipboard and wore the official uniform of the Beck and Langston athletics staffs—black sweatpants with intermittent tan racing stripes, and a burgundy long-sleeved cotton shirt with black script lettering on the left breast. The lettering said GRESHAM-NELSON SPORTS AND WELLNESS CENTER, and beneath it, stitched in beige block letters, were the words BECK ACADEMY. Around her neck was a coach’s whistle, and her long hair was gathered in a ponytail, fully revealing the slant of her eyes.
“Without Julia, I could not run this department, but without an assistant coach, I could not run this team. This is Tabitha Ling, a graduate of my alma mater, UCLA. She grew up in San Francisco, studied sports medicine and physical education, and is therefore more than qualified to serve as assistant coach and senior trainer. If you get injured, she’s the person to see. If you get tight before a game”—Grace interrupted the gravity to almost smile—“I’m told she has magical fingers.” She became grave again. “Most importantly, if she gives you a command, do it.” Again, Grace almost smiled, and she placed a finger behind her earlobe. “When she speaks, you may have to cup your ear…”
The players chuckled with understanding; Tab was notoriously soft-spoken.
“But,” Grace continued, “when you figure out what she’s said, do it,” she repeated. “She and I are in one accord. And in the event that Coach Julia acts as head coach, she will be completely dependent upon Coach Ling to get the job done. In fact, Julia and I agree that soon, perhaps as soon as spring season, it will be Tabitha who acts as head coach in my absence, and not Coach Julia. So give her your respect.”
“Thank you, Coach Grace,” Tab said softly. “I look forward to working with you,” she told the girls.
“What? What?” teased the seniors, cupping their ears and pretending they hadn’t heard Tab. Everyone chuckled, and even Grace smiled.
Tab smiled shyly, nodded once in greeting and farewell, and returned to the bleachers.
Grace looked at the oldest two college girls sitting on the bleachers, lifted a hand in the air, and wagged her fingers once, beckoning. The two young women immediately stood and walked over to the coach. Since Grace had discussed this moment with them earlier, they knew what to do. They stood, one on each side of her, and faced the twelve players. Grace addressed the Twelve.
“You remember these young ladies from tryouts last week. Gail Neal and Nikki Justin. They are Beck alumnae and graduates of my team, and they will be your trainers for the next month. At the start of October, they will leave us during the week but will remain with us for our Saturday sessions. After the season starts in November, we will no longer have them, because they’ll be fully engaged in their own careers. But until then, we will have the privilege of their experience and their knowledge. I have hired them to assist us because I know they are two of the most outstanding players I have ever had in this program. Neal is a freshman player at Georgia Tech, and Justin is a sophomore at Georgia State. Both were offered full athletic scholarships. Some of their former teammates are right now playing for UGA, UCLA, U-Conn, Duke, Tennessee State, Tech, Clemson, University of Wisconsin, and University of Kentucky. That is what happens to girls who are trained by me. For the next month, I suggest you take full advantage of these two young women here. Learn all you can from them. If they yell at you, speak a little rough from time to time, push you to unbearable limits, don’t take it personally. It’s all part of their goal, and mine, to shape you into the best athletes you can be.”
Grace paused for effect. The Twelve seemed impressed, and she was glad to see this. She knew how crucial it was to instill in players a respect for the trainers. A rocky relationship between the two groups could ruin a team. Grace looked again at the bleachers, at Ronnie and Monica, who understood the cue and came forward, while Gail and Nikki returned to the bleachers. When the two playful helpers flanked her, Grace continued speaking.
“Of course, you all know Ronnie and Monica”—members of the Twelve murmured in laughter—“or Veronica Richardson and Monica Martin, our wonderful team helpers who will assist us during practice and at games. Without them, I could not run the P.E. program. They take care of the things I might overlook—the details that make any system run. And I am very grateful for their diligence and cooperative spirits—they are, as you all know, very smart and knowledgeable, even though they are not ball players themselves, and I find them refreshing to have around. So give them your respect and appreciation. Don’t abuse them, but do take advantage of their services. Allow them to help me maintain order during practice and games. If you need anything, ask them for it. They are ready to get whatever you need to fulfill your role as players.”
Grace dismissed Ronnie and Monica with a nod and thanks, and the best friends walked promptly back to the bleachers and sat. Grace looked again at the Twelve, took a deep breath, released it. This was the end of the lecture and she was pleased with herself for the way she had delivered it.
“Now, I know I’ve said a lot today. Don’t worry, you will receive this information in writing. Some of you already have one of my handbooks. You new players will get one. Everything I’ve said is included in it. Read it,” she ordered. “One other thing,” she added, remembering. “Dent. Pat. Come here.”
The two veteran seniors glanced at each other curiously, stood, and began walking toward their coach.
“Face the others,” Grace told them when they reached her. Dent and Pat obeyed.
“This is Evelyn Dent. This is Patricia Butler. They will be your captains this year. I don’t make this decision lightly. But they have proven themselves to be very qualified for the jobs. Dent was co-captain last year. Even as a junior, seniors looked to her for advice on the floor. She’s a consistent player, even-tempered, and she thinks on court. That is a very important quality for a team leader. She will be your captain.” Grace indicated Pat with a wave of the arm. “Pat is also a shrewd player, and very dependable. Sometimes she has the mouth of a hooker”—Grace paused for chuckles—“which she is going to work on cleaning up this year, or else I will tell her daddy,” she added pointedly, playfully pinching Pat in the side as if the preacher’s daughter had just committed some infraction for which she needed to be punished. Pat cried out in playful complaint, and the others laughed again. “But she has a big heart and more love for people than she wants you to know, so you can always feel free to talk to her. She will be co-captain.”
She paused.
“Does anyone object to having these two ladies lead the team? If so, please speak now.”
Silence.
“Does anyone have any questions or comments about anything I’ve said today??
??
Silence.
“All right, then. Let’s get started.”